


Soft Serve

by littlepluto



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Exy Or Death Zine, Fluff, Insomnia, Inspired by Art, M/M, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purple Prose, Sleeping Together, USC Trojans, Zine piece, anyways pls enjoy, god this may just be the softest thing i’ve ever written, i am so sorry 4 the amount of purple prose, like literally sleepin together, yeet this is frm the exyordeath ravens zine that came out abt a month ago!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 17:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlepluto/pseuds/littlepluto
Summary: Haunted by memories and unable to sleep, Jean finds solace in the only person he’s been able to allow himself to call a friend. Featuring: ice cream, late-night couch cuddles, Jean’s inner demons, and Jeremy’s hair.





	Soft Serve

**Author's Note:**

> HEY im cheating the system by posting this, which i wrote back in august, instead of anything new bc im! lazy!!!! and also college/nanowrimo/life stuff is kickin my ass rn. but whatever. THIS is one of my entries to the Exy Or Death Ravens Zine which u can and should go buy/look at/send love to!!!! it’s full of really amazing artists and writers & i am so proud and honoured to be a part of it!! this particular piece was based on a stunning comic by Queenie which you should definitely find and read!!!!  
> ty nd hope yall enjoy this soft mess!! recommended listening for this fic: melting by kali uchis

 

In the hushed quiet of night time, the communal kitchen feels dreamed up. The light is too bright, the shadows too flat; the shapes of cabinets and floor tiles are blank, staring squares. Through the windows the night looms huge and unshakeable; stars are a distant dream. Faintly, as though underwater, Jean registers that the freezer is still open before him. The cold rush of air should, objectively, be uncomfortable, but tonight Jean is numb in a way that feels untouchable.

The bright pink-yellow packaging plastered over the tubs and laced with frost is a world away from the panic-drenched sheets in his room and the sharp taunt of the shadows there. Awake, at least he can sometimes push the nightmares back. Asleep, he has no recourse.

“Jean?” He starts at the soft voice from the doorway, shoulders tensing. Jeremy’s footfalls- because five months on from his first joining the team he’s memorised everyone’s footsteps, but especially Jeremy’s; he would know his tread in a crowded room with his eyes closed- are gentle over the tile, socked feet making almost no sound as he comes up to stand by Jean’s side, eyes silvery and concerned. “Are you okay?”

It takes a moment for Jean to find his voice. “I’m okay,” he manages. Cold air washes over them both; the faint hum of the refrigerator fills the stark spaces between them. No matter how many times he swallows he can’t seem to get rid of the lump in his throat, blocking his breath and choking his voice. “Nightmare.” The word is strangled, shaky. Under the caustic lights, he feels stripped bare and helpless.

And then Jeremy is lifting his hand slowly, asking for permission, and Jean is nodding, and Jeremy is pulling him close: relief floods through Jean’s body as Jeremy wraps his arms around him. Safe. Anchoring.  
After the initial few seconds, Jean reminds himself that _it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re allowed to have this_ , and slowly, tentatively, lets himself relax into the touch. He leans his forehead on Jeremy’s shoulder, breathing him in. His clothes are rumpled, like he’s just gotten out of bed. Jean realises he doesn’t even know what time it is, or how long he’s been standing here, just that it’s late.  
“Ice cream?” Jeremy asks wonderingly, voice muffled where his cheek is pressed to Jean’s hair. The laugh jolts through Jean like a sob, more hysterical than anything else, but he says, “I don’t know what I was thinking,” like it’s a confession, and Jeremy doesn’t do anything except hum thoughtfully, holding him steady.  
“How about,” he says, lips to Jean’s hair in that way he does sometimes that makes Jean’s stomach flip and fizz like an overflowing soda- and once again he reminds himself that it’s okay to want this. It’s okay to revel in it. “How about I get you a sweater and you get some spoons and we take this-,” he waves a hand around them both, bundled up in each other, “to the couch?”

  
They sit close to each other. It’s a testament to Jean’s therapy sessions that he isn’t immediately frozen by the contact anymore, that he can sit beside Jeremy like this and watch the night reflected in his eyes as they settle into comfort, legs drawn up under them, cushions rearranged and blanket retrieved from wherever the last team-member to use the common room threw it. Jeremy’s companionable silence as they pass the ice cream container back and forth, spoons clinking together in the low light, is comforting. His breathing is soft and rhythmic, a soundtrack that Jean can count on and trust and believe in. Slowly, as the minutes wear on and their lips turn numb and sweet- “My dentist is gonna hate me,” says Jeremy with a chuckle, utterly unremorseful- Jean feels himself becoming drowsier, lulled by the soft material of Jeremy’s sweater, the low cadence of his voice and his breaths.

 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Jeremy asks after some time, hushed and amused, and Jean’s eyes fly open- he hadn’t even realised they’d closed. But before he can make to jump away and carve a space between them, Jeremy is saying, “No, no, it’s not a bad thing! I’m honoured, actually. Just- do you want me to take that before you drop it?” He’s nodding at the spoon still held loosely in Jean’s hand. Slowly, sleep-blurry, Jean nods, handing it over, and then Jeremy is leaning his head against the backrest, curls a dark halo in this unlit room, closing his eyes.

  
“God, I’m tired,” he admits, a low murmur. Jean gets halfway through and apology before Jeremy is shaking his head, eyes cracked open. “Not your fault,” he says, always so devastatingly sincere, and even though that’s hard to believe, it’s difficult not to want to try. Here, in this warm shadowy room, with Jeremy- his friend, his teammate, part of his ever-growing family- breathing slow and peaceful beside him, it’s so difficult. Jean wants so badly to belong here. He knows if Jeremy could read his thoughts he’d say you already do. And Jean really, really wants to believe that, too.

 

*

  
Autumn sneaks up on Jean like an assassin with a knife pressed to his back, and with it the drawn-out nights turn merciless. It’s too cold for ice cream, but here he is: microwave clock searing emerald digits, 3:07am, into his back, low electric refrigerator buzz a strange comfort in the dimly lit kitchen.  
His teammates- his friends; eventually it will stop feeling like a betrayal to think the word and know it to be true- are sleeping up above, and at this moment it’s as if Jean is existing, wide awake with trembling hands, in a different universe to all of them. All except one.  
“Hey, stranger,” says Jeremy quietly, smiling at him from the doorway. He is a tousle-haired vision in his sunset-orange shirt; he runs a hand through his curls and lets it drop, eyes tracking the tenseness of Jean’s shoulders. “Ice cream in September? Sounds like a band name.”  
Jean manages something akin to a laugh and shrugs, listless. He fidgets with the rubber bands he keeps around his wrists- Jeremy’s idea, something to ground him when he drifts. Most days he can manage to keep his feet on the ground. But some slip through the cracks and he finds himself unmoored, wheeling through space with the stars, molecules tearing away around him in a stream of light and confused thought.  
Maybe tonight is one of those times.  
When Jeremy reaches out questioningly, Jean takes his hand at once.  
“I’m sorry,” he says, not looking at Jeremy. “It’s three in the morning; I’m keeping you up-,”  
“Jean,” says Jeremy, stopping him gently; his crooked grin is soft even in the artificial buzz of the light fixtures. “I’ll get some spoons. Okay?” And Jean swallows hard, meets Jeremy’s honest eyes. He nods.

The glowing light shows 3:15am when they settle down, leaning into each other as they’ve become accustomed to these long sleepless nights: how many times has this happened? Ten? Twenty? More? This time, Jean only hesitates a moment before leaning into Jeremy’s warmth. He breathes in the smell of him: the fresh, floral shampoo he uses; just a hint of crisp September air, a remnant from their training earlier today; toothpaste and strawberry ice cream and warmth. Someone had been using the Xbox earlier and the light is still on, green cutting through the dimness. There are pieces of homework strewn around, textbooks and fiction books alike piled in corners. One of Laila’s socks is resting on a fallen couch cushion, mysteriously bereft of its partner. This room is lived in. And there are traces of Jean, too: his tight, cursive handwriting on Jeremy’s training notes; even one of the aglets from his Exy trainers is in here somewhere, rolled under a table or a chair, out of sight but still here, a lasting proof that he exists.

The words rise unbidden, but once he’s started talking, he can’t seem to make himself stop.

“When I was a child,” he says, and Jeremy stills, ice cream forgotten. “I wanted to be an astronaut. My maman would tell me stories about the constellations; Cassiopeia, Orion. All I wanted, more than anything, was to be up there. In the stars.” He takes a deep breath, and Jeremy offers a hand to him, something to hold onto. Something grounding. Jean’s memories are anything but grounding.  
“When I was sent to the Ravens, it was to pay off a debt. My family owed the Moriyamas, and when it became clear that money wasn’t going to be enough, they sent me to be their bartering chip.”  
He remembers that day so much more clearly than he wishes. He was so young, watching the car door slam before him. He hadn’t understood, then, as he watched his mother’s face get further and further away, the rumble of the tires beneath him rising in jagged unison with the nausea within him then, that he would never hear her stories again. Would never have her rushing in to hold him as he clawed his way up from a nightmare, would never have her to stroke back his hair when he cried. Would never hear her soft voice telling him, _Ah, mon petit astronaute, c’es pas grave!_ after a clumsy accident or a fall. Naive child that he was, not realising, then, that he was leaving his life and that possibility of the future he’d dreamed of behind, forever.

The fabric of the couch is etched with tiny, almost invisible whorls. Jean feels at once very far away, a kite torn from an unsuspecting hand, but then Jeremy winds their fingers together, and suddenly he remembers how to breathe again.  
“You don’t have to go on,” says Jeremy. Jean knows it’s not- exactly fair; knows he’s just springing all of this on his friend with no warning, but- the floodgates are wide open. The torrent rushes onwards. He nods: acknowledgement. He takes a breath, and continues.  
“That’s all I was to them. A commodity, expendable. And Riko-” his mouth twists without him meaning it to, into something broken and bitter. “He never treated me like anything valuable.” He shakes his head, breath stuttering. “I can’t- talk about that part,” he explains, and even with his eyes fixed downwards, he can feel Jeremy’s fierce gaze.  
“You don’t have to,” he says softly, thumb sweeping soothing circles over Jean’s hand. “You don’t have to keep going at all, if you don’t want.”  
Jean closes his eyes. “I think I want to,” he says aloud, “I think I need to. Not- that. But I want you to know,” and here he does look at Jeremy, perfect, honest Jeremy silhouetted in the artificial light spilling from the kitchen doorway, “that I never felt at home with them.” The words are like hot stones burning his lips, but he means them, he knows them to be true and it’s taking everything in him to let himself say them out loud. “I never- belonged, at Evermore. I was never happy.”

It’s odd, now, to imagine that happiness was even an option. Is even an option. Here, his teammates laugh and joke and smile and love each other; USC is a home to them, a home filled with warmth and light. Jean doesn’t think a twisted, used-up broken thing like him should be allowed into such a loving, clean place, but every time he thinks about running, something pulls him back. The proud expressions on his teammates faces when he joined them on the court for the first time. Their sheer kindness. It still feels like a dream; one that he’s goddamn terrified of waking up from.

Jeremy’s hand in his started off cool from the ice cream container, but it’s warm now, his grip secure. His eyes say: _I’ve got you._ Jean wonders when he started believing it. “I was never happy there,” he says, chest full and aching, “but I think I’m learning how to be here.”

 

  
It’s nearing Christmas and the rest of the Trojans are taking full advantage of the festive spirit. Tinsel is still strewn over the kitchen counters where Jean leans, sweater sleeves pulls down over his hands. He catches his reflection in the mirror-black window pane, and maybe it’s the slow, liminal quality of existing when everyone else is fast asleep that makes him hold his own gaze, at least for a second. When he jerks his eyes away again, his own image is burned into them: ugly jagged scars looping his cheeks and scraping his jaw. Nausea rocks over him like a punch to the stomach, and Jean exhales, shaky. All these months, all this fucking therapy, and he still can’t look at himself in a mirror without wanting to throw up.

_Merde._

He thinks about opening the fridge, finding the newest ice cream container and cracking it open, smudging the layer of frost with his thumb; it’s tradition, after all. But he’s suddenly so, so fucking tired; too tired to sleep, too tired to _be._  
It’s a gargantuan effort to heave himself away from the counter. He avoids his reflection, this time: he knows what he looks like. Shadows slung under his eyes, scars stark against his skin, hair limp, shirt still half-sticking to him with cold sweat. He’s so tired. He’s _so tired._

When he pads into the rec room, arms wrapped tightly around himself, he doesn’t expect to see Jeremy curled up asleep on the couch, hands resting limply on a detailed court rotation sheet, fingertips smudged with ink.  
For a moment, Jean can do nothing but stand there, blinking into the silence. Then Jeremy makes a soft noise in his sleep, brow wrinkling, and something deep in Jean’s chest clenches.

Earlier that night, they’d both been coming back late from the court, wind-tossed and red-cheeked with their racquets under their arms. Jean remembers vividly Jeremy’s bright smile, the way his eyes closed when he laughed, head thrown back and curls messed by the wind.  
_Are you coming?_ Jean had asked, stowing his racquet and gloves in the locker room with everyone else’s equipment and gesturing up to the dorm building. Jeremy had waved him on with a grin, tucking his game notes under his arm. _Nah, you go ahead, he’d said. I’m just gonna finish up with these first._ Apparently, he’d been here ever since.

  
“You shouldn’t overwork yourself,” says Jean aloud, almost a whisper. Jeremy hums in his sleep, paper rustling as he shifts and settles.  
“You’re ridiculous,” says Jean, frowning down at him. He’s acutely aware of his own heartbeat, his own smallness in the vastness of this room, this building. Suddenly, surrounded by slashed blades of moonlight filtering through the cracked window blinds, he feels young, and lost, and unsure. He’s twisting his sweater sleeves, stretching out the fabric; a voice in his head says you’re ruining it, and- he is ruining it. All of it. All of _this_ this place, this team; he doesn’t belong here, just like he didn’t belong at Edgar Allen. Just like he didn’t belong with his parents, either, because he ruined that, too.  
Didn’t he?  
The moon gleams round and full, a pearl suspended in black ink. Jeremy sighs in his sleep, nose wrinkling as if he’s disgruntled by something; it’s so stupid. It’s so _stupid._  
“I’m so stupid,” says Jean. The darkness doesn’t care. The moon, serene and so far away from his petty, fickle life, doesn’t care. His eyes are burning, but he doesn’t know why; his chest is brimming with emotion, but he doesn’t-

Jeremy rolls over on the couch, dislodging the papers; they fly from his slack grip and skate across the ground, skimming the carpet as if they’re about to take off again before they hit the TV stand and bounce back, thwarted.  
Pools of moonlight move slowly over the floor as the moon and stars arc overhead; as inevitable as the end of all things, the shining pale light moves up and over to fall over Jeremy’s face, only just visible through the fall of his wild hair. Illuminated, in repose, he is almost statuesque. He could be carved from perfect marble, save for the fact that he is too indisputably alive to be made from stone. His mouth still seems moments away from a laugh or smile, even asleep. His closed eyes flutter behind their gossamer lids. God, Jean is so far gone it’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. It’s unthinkable.

  
And yet...

  
Jean closes his eyes. He feels like his veins might be made of light itself.  
“Jeremy,” he says, helpless, because it’s the only chance he’ll ever have; because god knows he’ll never say it again; because Jeremy is sleeping and Jean is wide awake, and he feels like the whole world is lying in front of him. “I really like you,” he says into the dark: a confession. A secret. Voice barely audible, heart in his throat.

And Jeremy says, “I really like you, too.”

Jean’s eyes fly open, and for a second pure panic blots out his vision. And then he sees, really sees, and Jeremy is sitting up, dark lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones where they brush, shy smile like dawn breaking across a new sky.

  
“You- what?” Jean can hardly speak.  
Jeremy looks up at him, running one hand through his hair: sleep-drenched. When he meets Jean’s eyes, despite his rumpled edges, his patented sincerity is dialled all the way up. “Jean,” he says, voice rough with sleep, “I really, really like you. Like, more-than-friends like you.”  
Jean blinks at him, breath stuck in his throat, and Jeremy sits up a little straighter, rubbing at his eyes: “Really,” he says, “I think you’re funny without even thinking about it. You’re so smart, like- so smart. I love the way your voice sounds when you speak French, especially when you don’t realise you’re doing it. You like the same ice cream as me. You’re- stunning, honestly, so damn handsome, and- I know I’m rambling, I know it’s, what, four in the morning? Jean, I know you don’t believe me, but I promise you,” He stands up, slowly because he knows Jean, knows him better than anyone ever has or will, even just-woken-up with his clothes all creased and his hair a halo of wild curls.  
“I promise you that I’m telling the truth. In all of this. And,” he pauses, takes a deep breath. Jean can only stare back at him, moonlight painted over one half of his face, rendering him silver and smoke. “Please, please don’t feel like this is some kind of- obligation. It’s not. It’s just- it’s been so long, and I don’t think I can keep any of this in any longer. I never, ever want to make you uncomfortable. Ever. So if you just want to be friends, or if you need time, or- anything, really, that’s okay. I promise you. I just… I had to say it.” He looks away, hair falling over his face, and even in the strange half-dark, Jean sees the deep flush over his cheeks.

  
But Jean can’t speak. Can’t find any words adequate enough. He can’t really breathe all that well, but he also doesn’t really care. When the silence has stretched on too long, Jeremy looks back at him, eyes widening. Apology forming. _Oh, God, Jean,_ he’s saying, making to back away- but it’s all happening in slow motion.  
Jean reaches forwards and grabs his hand, and he falls still and silent, eyes caught and confused. “Jeremy Knox,” says Jean, and then that’s all he says before he’s pulling the other towards him, one hand coming up to cup his cheek, and Jeremy is staring back at him, smile slowly tugging at his lips once more.  
“Jean Moreau,” he says, terrible French pronunciation and all, and then someone moves first, and someone else follows, and they close the gap between them at last.

The kiss is fleeting, brief; before Jean can form any coherent thought beyond holy shit, Jeremy pulls back, hands falling away from Jean’s shoulders, and they stare at each other in the darkness, acutely aware of their own breathing.  
“Was that- okay?” Jeremy asks, heartbreakingly hesitant.  
Jean swallows. “Yes,” he says, inadequately.  
But Jeremy is smiling, helplessly, and Jean finds himself smiling back. Lifting a hand to take hold of the collar of Jeremy’s tangerine sweater.  
He is unbelievably aware of just how much he puts on the line when he leans in again.  
Jeremy meets him halfway.

It turns out that his curls are even softer than they look, beneath Jean’s hands where he buries them deep and holds on; he tilts his head, angling deeper, and when he sighs, Jeremy swallows it. They kiss again, sinking back onto the couch; slow, gentle, deep; it’s as if they have all the time in the world- no. It’s as if time has stopped, just for them.  
Jeremy’s thumb traces the silvery scars on Jean’s cheeks, always so gentle. The last time Jean knew gentle, he was a child. It’s almost terrifying, how much he needs this; he’s never been a tactile person. Riko took that from him. But now, he and Jeremy breathe in tandem, holding onto each other for dear life even as their kisses turn soft and light, and Jean feels like he might be drowning, if only drowning felt this good.

 

Later, Jeremy perches on the kitchen counter, spinning his spoon around his thumb with practiced ease, laughing when it wobbles and he catches it out of the air.  
“Don’t you want some?” Jean asks from his chair, offering up the ice cream tub, spoon halfway to his mouth.  
“You’re sweeter than ice cream,” says Jeremy, and winks.

 

 

 

 


End file.
